to the Princess from there, he already "is at her feet." Later in the
same year he is hers "heart and soul." Early the following year he
quotes for her these lines from "Paradise Lost:"
"For contemplation he, and valour formed,
For softness she, and sweet attractive grace;
He for God only, she for God in him!"
She presents him with a baton set with jewels; he writes to her about the
first concert at which he will use it. He transcribes Schubert's lovely
song, "My sweet Repose, My Peace art Thou," and tells her that he can
play it only for her. At the same time their letters to each other are
filled with references to public affairs and literary, artistic and
musical matters. They are the letters of two people of broad and
cultivated taste, who are drawn to each other by every bond of intellect
and sentiment. Is it a wonder that but little more than a year after
they met, the Princess decided to burn her bridges behind her and leave
her husband? Through his friend, Prince Felix Lichnowsky, Liszt arranged
that they should meet at Krzyzanowitz, one of the Lichnowsky country
seats in Austrian Silesia. "May the angel of the Lord lead you, my
radiant morning star!" he exclaims. At the same time he has an eye to
the practical side of the affair, and describes the place as just the one
for their meeting point, because Lichnowsky will be too busy to remain
there, and there will not be a soul about, save the servants.
It was shortly before the revolution of 1848. To gain permission to
cross the border, the Princess pretended to be bound for Carlsbad, for
the waters.
Liszt's valet met her and her daughter as soon as they were out of
Russia, took them to Ratibor, where they were received by Lichnowsky, who
conducted them to Liszt. After a few days at this place of meeting, they
went to Graz, where they spent a fortnight in another of the Lichnowsky
villas. Among the miscellaneous correspondence of Liszt is a letter from
Graz to his friend Franz von Schober, councillor of legation at Weimar,
where Liszt was settled as court conductor. In it he describes the
Princess as "without doubt an uncommonly and thoroughly brilliant example
of soul and mind and intelligence (with a prodigious amount of _esprit_
as well). You readily will understand," he adds, "that henceforth I can
dream very little of personal ambition and of a future wrapped up in
myself. In political relations serfdom may have an end; but the dominion
of one soul over another in the spirit region--should that not remain
indestructible?"--Oh, Liszt's prophetic soul! Thereafter his life was
shaped by this extraordinary woman, for weal and, it must be confessed,
for reasons which will appear later, partly for woe.
The Grandduchess of Weimar took the Princess under her protection, and
she settled at Weimar in the Altenburg, while Liszt lived in the Hotel
zum Erbprinzen. Many tender missives passed between them. "Bonjour, mon
bon ange!" writes Liszt. "On vous aime et vous adore du matin au soir et
du soir au matin."--"On vous attend et vous bénit, chère douce lumière de
mon âme!"--"Je suis triste comme toujours et toutes les fois que je
n'entends pas votre voix--que je ne regarde pas vos yeux."
[Illustration: The Princess Carolyne in her later years at Rome.]
One of the billets relates to an incident that has become historic.
Wagner had been obliged, because of his participation in the revolution,
to flee from Dresden. He sought refuge with Liszt in Weimar, but,
learning that the Saxon authorities were seeking to apprehend him,
decided to continue his flight to Switzerland. He was without means and,
at the moment, Liszt, too, was out of funds. In this extremity, Liszt
despatched a few lines to the Princess. "Can you send me by bearer sixty
thalers? Wagner is obliged to flee, and I am unable at present to come
to his aid. _Bonne et heureuse nuit_." The money was forthcoming, and
Wagner owed his safety to the Princess. This is but one instance in
which, at Liszt's instigation, she was the good fairy of poor musicians.
About a year after the Princess settled in the Altenburg, Liszt, too,
took up his residence there. From that time until they left it, it was
the Mecca of musical Europe. Thither came Von Bülow and Rubinstein, then
young men; Joachim and Wieniawski; Brahms, on his way to Schumann, who,
as the result of this visit from Brahms, wrote the famous article hailing
him as the coming Messiah of music; Berlioz, and many, many others. The
Altenburg was the headquarters of the Wagner propaganda. From there came
material and artistic comfort to Wagner during the darkest hours of his
exile and poverty.
Wendelin Weissheimer, a German orchestral leader, a friend of Liszt and
Wagner, and of many other notable musicians of his day, has given in his
reminiscences (which should have been translated long ago) a delightful
glimpse of life at the Altenburg. He describes a dinner at which Von
Bronsart, the composer, and Count Laurencin, the musical writer, were the
other guests. At table the Princess did the honors "most graciously,"
and her "divinity," Franz Liszt, was in "buoyant spirits." After the
champagne, the company rose and went upstairs to the smoking-room and
music salon, which formed one apartment, "for with Liszt, smoking and
music-making were, on such occasions, inseparable." One touch in
Weissheimer's description recalls the Princess's early acquired habit of
smoking.
"He [Liszt] always had excellent Havanas, of unusual length, ready, and
they were passed around with the coffee. The Princess also had come
upstairs. When Liszt sat down at one of the two pianos, she drew an
armchair close up to it and seated herself expectantly, also with one of
the long Havanas in her mouth and pulling delectably at it. We others,
too, drew up near Liszt, who had the manuscript of his 'Faust' symphony
open before him. Of course he played the whole orchestra; of course the
way in which he did it was indescribable; and--of course we all were in
the highest state of exaltation. After the glorious 'Gretchen' division
of the symphony, the Princess sprang up from the armchair, caught hold of
Liszt and kissed him so fervently that we all were deeply moved. [In the
interim her long Havana had gone out.]"
The years which Liszt passed with the Princess at the Altenburg, and when
he was most directly under her influence, were the most glorious in his
career. Besides the "Faust" symphony, he composed during this period the
twelve symphonic poems, thus originating a new and highly important
musical form, which may be said to bear, in their liberation from
pedantry, the same relation to the set symphony that the music drama does
to opera; the "Rhapsodies Hongroises;" his piano sonata and concertos;
the "Graner Messe;" and the beginnings of his "Christus" and "Legend of
the Holy Elizabeth." The Princess ordered the household arrangements in
such a way that the composer should not be disturbed in his work. No one
was admitted to him without her _visé_; she attended to the voluminous
correspondence which, with a man of so much natural courtesy as Liszt,
would have occupied an enormous amount of his time. He was the
acknowledged head of the Wagner movement, at that time regarded as
nothing short of revolutionary; he was looked upon as the friend of all
progressive propaganda in his art; to play for Liszt, to have his opinion
on performance or composition, was the ambition of every musical
celebrity, or would-be one; his cooperation in innumerable concerts and
music festivals was sought for. His was a name to conjure with. Between
him and these assaults on his almost proverbial kindness stood the
Princess, and the list of his great musical productions during this
period, to say nothing of his literary work, like the rhapsody on Chopin,
is the tale of what the world owes her for her devotion. The relations
between Liszt and the Princess were frankly acknowledged, and by the
world as frankly accepted, as if they were two exceptional beings in whom
one could pardon things which in the case of ordinary mortals would mean
social ostracism. The nearest approach to this situation was that of
George Eliot and Lewes. But with Liszt and his Princess the world,
possibly after the fashion of the Continent, was far more lenient, and
their lives in their outward aspects were far more brilliant. No exalted
mind in literature, music, art or science passed through Weimar, or came
near it, without being drawn to the Altenburg as by a magnet. There
seems to have been within its walls an almost uninterrupted intellectual
revel, or, to use a trite expression, which here is most apt, a steady
feast of reason and flow of soul. The sojourn of Liszt and the Princess
in the Altenburg was a "golden period" for Weimar, a revival of the time
when Goethe lived there and reflected his glory upon it.
[Illustration: The Altenburg, Weimar, where Liszt and Carolyne lived.]
And yet--convention is the result of the concentrated essence of the
experience of ages; and no one seems able to break through it without the
effort leaving a scar. It cast its shadow even over the life at the
Altenburg. There remained one great longing to the Princess, the
nonfulfilment of which was as a void in her soul. She yearned to bear
the name of the man she adored. During the twelve years of their Weimar
sojourn she battled for it, but in vain. Then she transferred the
battlefield to Rome.
Her husband, a Protestant, had found no difficulty in securing a divorce
from her. She was an ardent Roman Catholic, and the church stood in her
way, her own relatives, who had been scandalized at her flight, being
active in invoking its opposition. She went to Rome in the spring of
1860, to press her suit at the very centre of churchly authority. Liszt
remained in Weimar awaiting word from her. It took her more than a year
to secure the Papal sanction. Then, when everything seemed auspiciously
settled and her marriage with Liszt a certainty, her enthusiasm led her
to take a step which, at the very last moment, proved fatal to her
long-cherished hope.
Had she returned at once to Weimar, her union with Liszt undoubtedly
would have taken place. But no. In her joy she must go too far. In
Rome, there where the marriage had been interdicted, there where she had
successfully overcome opposition to it, there it should take place. Her
triumph should be complete.
Liszt was sent for. His last two letters to her before their meeting in
Rome are dated from Marseilles in October, 1861. The marriage was to
take place October 22, his fiftieth birthday. He writes her from the
Hotel des Empereurs, himself "_plus heureux que tous les empereurs du
monde_!" and again, "_Mon long exil va finir_." Yet it was only just
beginning!
He arrived in Rome on October 20. All arrangements for the ceremony in
the San Carlo al Corso had been made. Then, by a strange fatality, it
chanced that several of the Princess's relations, who were most bitter
against her, entered upon the scene. Of all times, they happened to be
in Rome at this critical moment, and, getting wind of the impending
marriage, they entered a violent protest. When, on the evening of the
21st, Liszt was visiting the Princess, a Papal messenger called and
announced that His Holiness had decided to forbid the ceremony until he
could look into the matter more fully, and requested from her a
resubmission of the documents bearing on the case.
To the Princess, then on the threshold of realizing her most cherished
hopes, this was the last stroke. Her over-wrought nature saw in it a
Judgment of Heaven. She refused to resubmit the papers; and even, when a
few years later, Prince Wittgenstein died and she was free, she regarded
marriage with Liszt as opposed by the Divine will. A strain of
mysticism, nurtured by busy ecclesiastics, developed itself in her; she
became possessed of the idea that she was a chosen instrument in the
Church's hands to further its interests; and with feverish, desperate
energy she devoted herself to literary work as its champion. She had her
own press, which set up each day's work and showed it to her in proof the
next. She did not leave Rome except on one occasion, and then for less
than a day, during the remaining twenty-six years of her life.
It has been hinted more than once that the Princess's course was not as
completely governed by religious mysticism as might be supposed--that her
sensitive nature had divined in Liszt an unexpressed opposition to the
marriage, as if, possibly, he did not wish to be tied down to her, yet
felt bound in honor, because of the sacrifices she had made for him, to
appear to share her hope. La Mara (Marie Lipsius), the editor of the
Liszt letters and whose interesting notes form the connecting links in
the correspondence, does not take this view. It is noticeable, however,
although Liszt and the Princess saw each other frequently whenever he was
in Rome, and he became an abbé probably through her influence, that while
in some of his letters to her in later years there are notes of regret,
those written after the crisis in Rome breathe an intellectual rather
than a personal affinity.
Be this as it may, it was a tragedy in his life as well as in her own.
Practically the rest of his life was divided, each year, between
Budapest, at the Conservatory there; Weimar, but no longer at the
Altenburg; and Rome, but not at the Princess's residence, Piazza di
Spagna. Thus he had three homes--none of which was home. The "golden
period" of his life, as well as the Altenburg itself, where others now
were installed, were dim shadows of the past. Liszt was the "grand old
man" of the piano, and is a great figure among composers; but whoever
knows the story of the last years of his life, sees him a wandering and
pathetic figure. He died at Bayreuth in July, 1886; Carolyne survived
him less than a year. The literary work of her twenty-six years in Rome
probably will be forgotten; it will be the linking of her name with
Liszt, and its association with the "golden period" of Weimar, that will
cause her to be remembered.
Wagner and Cosima
No woman not a professional musician has ever played so important a part
in musical history as "Frau Cosima," the widow of Richard Wagner. In
fact, has any woman, professional musician or not? Bear in mind who
"Frau Cosima" is. She is the daughter of Franz Liszt, the greatest
pianist and one of the great composers of the last century, and was the
wife and, in the most exalted meaning of the term, the helpmeet of the
greatest of all composers! The two men with whom Cosima has thus stood
in such intimate relation are exceptional even among great musicians.
Composers are usually strongly emotional, inspired in all that pertains
to their art, but with a specialist's lack of interest in everything
else. Not so, however, Liszt or Wagner, for not since the time of
Beethoven had there been two musicians who, in the exercise of their art,
approached it from so clear an intellectual standpoint. Beethoven
through the greatness of his mind was able to enlarge the symphonic form,
which had been left by Haydn and Mozart. It became more responsive, more
plastic, in his hands. Form in art is the creation of the intellect;
what goes into it is the outflow of the heart. Thus Liszt created the
Symphonic Poem, and Wagner completely revolutionized the musical stage by
creating the Music-Drama. Into the Symphonic Poem, into the Music-Drama,
they put their hearts; but the creation of these forms was in each an
intellectual _tour de force_. The musician who thinks as well as feels
is the one who advances his art. In the historic struggle between Wagner
and the classicists Liszt played a large part. He was the first to
produce "Lohengrin"--was, as orchestral conductor, its subtle
interpreter, and, thus, a pioneer of the new school; he was Wagner's
steadfast champion through life, and a beautiful friendship existed
between "Richard" and "Franz."
[Illustration: Richard Wagner. From the original lithograph of the
Egusquiza portrait.]
Even now the reader can begin to realize the rôle Cosima has played in
music. That she is the daughter of Liszt is not in itself wonderful, but
that she should have fulfilled the mission to which she was born is one
of the most exquisite touches of fate. Liszt was one of Wagner's first
champions and friends. He came to the composer's aid in the darkest
years of his career--during that long exile after Wagner had been obliged
to flee from Germany because of his participation in the revolution of
1848. It was, in fact, through Liszt that Wagner received the means to
continue his flight from the Saxon authorities and cross the border to
safety in Switzerland.
Nor did Liszt's beneficence stop there. From afar he continued to be
Wagner's good fairy. To fully appreciate Liszt's action at this time,
one must keep in mind the position of the Saxon composer. To-day his
fame is world-wide; we can scarcely realize that there was a time when
his genius was not recognized, but at that time he was not famous at all.
Those who had the slightest premonition of what the future would accord
him were a mere handful of enthusiasts. Such a thing as a Wagner cult
was undreamed of. He had produced three works for the stage. "Rienzi"
had been a brilliant success, "The Flying Dutchman" a mere _succès
d'estime_, "Tannhäuser" a comparative failure. From a popular point of
view he had not sustained the promise of his first work. We know now
that compared with his second and third works "Rienzi" is trash, and that
rarely has a composer made such wonderful forward strides in his art as
did Wagner with "The Flying Dutchman" and "Tannhäuser." But that was not
the opinion when they were produced. The former, although it is now
acknowledged to be an exquisitely poetic treatment of the weird legend,
was voted sombre and dull, and "Tannhäuser" was simply a puzzle. After
listening to "Tannhäuser," Schumann declared that Wagner was unmusical!
Unless a person is familiar with Wagner's life, it is impossible to
believe how bitter was the opposition to his theories and to his music.
Does it seem possible now that he had to struggle for twenty-five years
before he could secure the production of his "Ring of the Nibelung"? Yet
such was the case. Then, too, he was poor, and sometimes driven to such
straits that he contemplated suicide.
When the public remained indifferent to one of his works and critics
reviled it, Wagner's usual method of reply was to produce something still
more advanced. Thus, when "Tannhäuser" proved caviar to the public, and
seemed to affect the critics like a red rag waved before a bull, he
promptly sat down and wrote and composed "Lohengrin." But how should he,
an exile, secure its production? There it lay a mute score. As he
turned its pages, the notes looked out at him appealingly for a hearing.
It was like a homesick child asking for its own. What did Wagner do? He
wrote a few lines to Liszt. The answer was not long in coming. Liszt
was already making the necessary arrangements to accede to Wagner's
request and produce "Lohengrin" in Weimar, where he was musical director.
Liszt's name gave great _éclat_ to the undertaking; and through the
acclaim which, with the aid of his pupils and admirers, he understood so
well how to create, it attracted widespread attention, musicians from far
and near in Germany coming to hear it. Of course, opinions on the work
were divided, but the band of Wagner enthusiasts received accessions, and
the interest in the production had been too intense not to leave an
impression. The performance was, in fact, epoch-making. It raised a
"Wagner question" which would not down; which kept at least his earlier
works before the public; and which made him, even while still a fugitive
from Germany, and an exile, a prominent figure in the musical circles of
the country that refused him the right to cross its borders.
All this was done by Liszt. Next to Wagner's own genius, which would
eventually have fought its way into the open, the influence that first
brought Wagner some degree of recognition was Franz Liszt. His
assistance to Wagner at this stage in that composer's career cannot be
overestimated. He was his tonic in despair, his solace in his darkest
hours. Few men appear in a nobler rôle than Liszt in his correspondence
with Wagner during this period. Is it not marvellous that some twenty
years later, at another crisis in Wagner's life, another being came to
his aid and became to him as a haven of rest; and that that being should
have been none other than the daughter of his earlier benefactor, Franz
Liszt? Fate often is cruel and often unaccountable, but in this instance
it seems to have acted the rôle of Cupid with an exquisite sense of what
was appropriate, and to have set the crowning glory of a great woman's
love upon Wagner's career.
When Liszt was producing "Lohengrin," aiding Wagner pecuniarily, and
cheering him in his exile, Cosima Liszt was a young girl in Paris, where
she, her elder sister Blandine (afterward the wife of Emile Ollivier, who
became the war minister of Napoleon the Third) and her brother Daniel
lived with Liszt's mother. It was in Mme. Liszt's house that Wagner
first met her. He had gone to Paris in hopes of furthering his cause
there. During his sojourn he held a reading of his libretto to "The Ring
of the Nibelung" at Mme. Liszt's before a choice audience, which included
Liszt, Berlioz and Von Bülow. This occurred in the early fifties.
Cosima, who was among the listeners, was at the time fifteen or sixteen
years old. The mere fact of her presence at the reading is recorded.
Whether she was impressed with the libretto or its author we do not know.
It is probable that their meeting consisted of nothing more than the mere
formal introduction of the composer to the girl who was the daughter of
his friend Liszt, and who was to be one of the small and privileged
gathering at the reading. Wagner soon left Paris, and if she made any
impression on him at that time, he does not mention the fact in his
letters.
[Illustration: Cosima, wife of Wagner. From a portrait bust made before
her marriage.]
Whoever takes the trouble to read Liszt's correspondence, which is in
seven volumes and nearly all in French, will have little difficulty in
discerning that Cosima was his favorite child. He speaks of her
affectionately as "Cosette" and "Cosimette." Like his own, her
temperament was artistic and responsive, and she also inherited his charm
of manner and his exquisite tact, which, if anything, her early bringing
up in Paris enhanced. In 1857, when she was twenty, Wagner saw her again
and describes her as "Liszt's wonderful image, but of superior intellect."
Well might Wagner speak of her resemblance to her father as wonderful. I
have seen Liszt and Cosima together, on an occasion to be referred to
later, and was struck with the remarkable likeness between father and
daughter. Both were idealists; if he had his eyes upon the stars, so had
she. Here is a passage from one of Liszt's letters:
"_Une pensée favorite de Cosima:' De quelque coté qu'un tourne la torche,
la flamme se redresse et monte vers le ciel._'" ("A favorite thought of
Cosima's: Whichever way you may turn the torch, the flame turns on itself
and still points toward the heavens.'")
A woman whose life holds that motto is in herself an inspiration.
Whatever turn fortune takes, her aspirations still blaze the way. She
herself is the torch of her motto.
Although not a musician, although keeping herself consistently in the
background during Wagner's life (much as a mere private secretary would),
her influence at Bayreuth was continually felt; and since his death she
has been the head and front of the Wagner movement, and yet without
seeking publicity. Her intellectual force quietly assured her the
succession. There have been protests against her absolute rule, but she
has serenely ignored them. She still moulds to her will all the forces
concerned in the Bayreuth productions.